Practically Inhuman
by balladofbliss
Summary: Sam, Andy, and a future moment at home. One-shot.


A/N: This started out as winter-inspired fluff, but took some decidedly non-fluffy turns. I'm opting to blame my wacky how-am-I-still-pregnant brain for any lack of cohesion, but I'll let you all be the judge of how much sense it makes. Enjoy, and stay warm (or cool, for those of you lucky enough to be in the Southern hemisphere). :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Rookie Blue.

* * *

Sam stumbles into the kitchen shortly after the sky begins to turn pink, his sole intention to retrieve some water and go back to bed. As he's holding the glass beneath the tap, though, his eyes drift to the plastic bowl on the floor, a quarter of the way full, and it blearily occurs to him that _that_ is the extent of their dog food stockpile. He groans inwardly; briefly considers whether he can just feed Boo something from the freezer, but he can't remember if the meatballs have onions in them and an emergency trip to the vet sounds a lot more complicated than a puppy-chow run. So he pads back to the bedroom, finds his jeans hanging over the chair where he left them last night and pulls a black thermal shirt from his bureau.

He's careful not to let the wooden drawer scrape as he slides it open; doesn't want to wake Andy. (Took her long enough to fall asleep, if the near-constant tossing and turning beside him – not to mention the sharp elbow he took to the ribs at one point – were any indication.) In the dusky calm, he can make out the mountain of blankets beneath which she's burrowed, just barely moving with the slow rhythmic breaths of hard-earned slumber. They're both off today, and he figures it can't hurt to let her sleep off whatever happened on yesterday's shift as long as possible.

(She wouldn't talk about it – barely talked at all once he got her out of the station and into the house, which would've been alarming enough – but Collins' pallor and locker-room disclosure that it rivaled some of the more stomach-turning sights he'd witnessed in Afghanistan can in no way be a good sign.)

He's yanking the shirt over his head as he walks down the hallway, momentarily regretting the decision to get a dog in the first place, when he hears a soft whine. Surprise, surprise; Boo is sitting near the boots that Sam discarded beside the front door when he came in yesterday. (The sound of Sam's belt buckle fastening gives him away every time; from what Sam can deduce, Boo has figured out that it means a human will be leaving the house, and there's at least a remote chance he'll get to come along.) Sam looks at the dog's earnest face, the stubby tail happily thumping along the floor, and shakes his head. "I'm gonna trade you in for a goat. They eat everything."

The truck is in the garage, so they're able to hop in comfortably enough, but when Sam opens the door in the supermarket parking lot (Boo happy enough to remain in the relative warmth of the passenger seat), the cold air that confronts him feels like a full-body smack, shoving its way through his leather jacket and the charcoal knit hat-and-scarf set one of Sarah's kids got him for Christmas a few years ago. He sticks his hands in his jacket pockets and keeps his head down as he walks quickly, squinting as the early-morning sun reflects off the neatly shoveled snowbanks that cover every median. (It's not supposed to snow again this week, but the temperatures are going to be way too low for any of what's accumulated to even think about melting.) The store is nearly empty; from what he can tell, his few fellow shoppers consist of little old ladies looking for the freshest bread and haggard night-shift workers, still in whatever uniforms their industries specify. He books it to the pet aisle, loads a bag of Purina onto the bottom of the cart, and meanders back toward the registers, stopping to pick up a few necessities along the way. (Eggs. Vegetables. Chocolate chips. Okay, so perhaps not _all_ necessities – though he suspects another member of his household would disagree.) The bored cashiers visibly perk up when they see him approaching, presumably happy for something to do, and he's back outside moments later, steeling himself against the bite of the frigid air.

Fifteen minutes later, Boo bounds past him into the house through the door in the garage. "All you want to do is go for a ride, then you can't wait to get back in," Sam mutters, shifting the unwieldy sack of dog food onto his hip so he can pick up the other grocery bags with his opposite hand. He shivers as a blast of heat rushes around him; as he kicks the door shut and awkwardly makes his way toward the kitchen, the smell of coffee grows progressively stronger. He stores the food, both human and canine, and as he attempts to recall whether he set up the coffee maker last night to run at any particular time, he notices that the pot is full, minus one cup's worth.

Jacket, boots, and miscellaneous winter gear shed, he fills a mug for himself and heads to the bedroom. The bed is more or less made, the duvet smoothed over the heap of throw blankets and decorative pillows that grace its surface at any given time, and he surveys the rest of the room to find Andy seated on the cushioned windowsill, head leaning against the glass pane with both hands wrapped around a blue ceramic cup and long legs stretched out in front of her. (Her toenails are green and sparkly; she must have painted them after he left for work yesterday morning.)

On any other day, he'd point out the absence of the thick fuzzy socks and hoodie (the latter was his, at one point) in which she went to bed last night – _so _that's _what you look like under all that fleece, McNally, I'd almost forgotten_ – and she'd roll her eyes and unsuccessfully attempt to bite back a grin and they'd probably end up putting off the morning for another hour or so. It's not any other day, though. He's not altogether certain what today's going to be just yet.

"Morning," he says, raising his mug in a salutation of sorts.

Her eyes dart toward him, as if somewhat startled. "Hey," she murmurs. "Where've you been?"

Her tone is casual enough, but he doesn't miss the underlying suspicion behind the words. Seven months since she's gotten back from Dakota, seven months and a house and dog and innumerable drawn-out conversations later, and these miniscule fears still have a way of manifesting themselves. They both _know_ the other one isn't going anywhere, trust that they're in this thing for good – but residual insecurities still manage to find their way in from time to time.

Still, they don't ask much of one another, relatively speaking. She likes to know where he is when she wakes up; he wants to have a decent idea of what's going on in her head. (And vice versa.) The expectations aren't particularly unreasonable, and they both manage to meet them most of the time – and they're equally quick to apologize when, for whatever reason, they don't.

"We ran out of dog food," he explains, approaching the window seat. "Would've left a note, but I figured you'd still be asleep when I got back. Sorry."

She shrugs, taking a small sip from her mug. "S'okay. I knew you'd be back eventually."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mm-hmm." She nods for good measure. "Coffee maker was still set."

"Nice deduction," he grins, lifting her legs with his free hand and settling them on his lap as he sits down. "Ever think about joining the D's?"

"Nah. I like the uniform too much." Her smile fades as soon as it begins to blossom. "Usually."

Sam runs his palm over her upturned ankle and shin, bare where her snowflake-print pajama pants have ridden up. "Collins said it was bad."

She shifts her gaze into her mug. "He wasn't wrong."

Sam sighs, gently drumming his fingers along her skin. He'd ask if she wants to talk about it, but knows it's still practically a reflex for her to decline. Sometimes, though, all she needs is an opening and a little time.

Sure enough, she takes a slow breath. The words are hesitant at first, but before long it's as if she can't get the story out quickly enough: a woman saddled with three kids under the age of four and an ailing mother, who had watched her life descend into disarray in the year since her husband left. "We were just supposed to be backup for a social services visit, but it was… The house was filthy, and the kids were all in diapers that probably hadn't been changed in days, and the poor old woman, she was just stuck in that bed for… it's hard to know how long. Weeks, maybe," Andy says rapidly, eyes fixed on her remaining coffee. "We got them out, got them to the hospital, but I just can't get it out of my head." She pauses. "I threw up. I don't usually… I mean, I didn't think I let things get to me like that anymore."

He nods, tries not to think about the first time he saw something horrific enough to bring him to his knees. _It never stops getting to you_, he thinks about responding – but he imagines she already knows that. She already knows it's not a matter of remaining stoic in the face of terrible things, but dealing with them and getting up the next day to do it again. He could toss out a bunch of clichés about courage and all that, but she deserves more.

(Deserves more than silence, too, but right now it's the best thing he can offer. Just as well, as she's not quite done.)

"How do people let that happen?" she wonders aloud. "Let their lives just… fall apart? Let the people who depend on them end up like that?"

He sighs, clearing his throat. "Happens more than you think. Not usually to that extreme, but life hits hard sometimes, and whoever's in the way gets hurt. Look at your parents." He pauses. "Look at mine. No one starts out as a monster. One thing happens, then another, and no one can handle it all. We're all just…"

"Human," she finishes softly, leaning her head back against the wall. "So all we can do is try to help when everything goes to hell. But if we can't keep it from happening to other people, who's to say we'll be any better ourselves? That we're somehow immune to letting things get that bad?"

So _that's_ it. He leans forward until he's looking her in the eye. "You did help yesterday. You know that, right?"

"I know," she sighs, swinging her legs around and pivoting her body so that her back is flush against his side.

"And… that's not all we can do," he ventures after a moment.

"Hmm?"

He rests his cheek on the top of her head. "We can do it better."

She lets out a mirthless chuckle. "It's that easy? We just say we'll be better than what we've seen, what we've… experienced, and it's a done deal?"

"Why not?" He wraps his arm around the front of her shoulders, settling it just beneath her collarbones. "You promise yourself. Promise whoever depends on you… then all you have to do is keep it."

"All you have to…" She cranes her neck to look up at him. "So our kids would turn out just fine, then. Just based on a promise."

It takes her a second to realize what she's just said – and it's not as if they haven't discussed the idea of procreation in the abstract before, but the phrase _our kids_ is…definitely new. He feels her freeze palpably beside him.

He shifts so that his forehead bumps against hers. "Not that we won't make mistakes, but… they _will_ turn out just fine, Andy."

His choice of words isn't lost on her; he watches her expression cycle through confusion and surprise before settling into something softer, trusting. She knows that, however roundabout, it's a promise from him. A promise to stay; to fight. To keep a constant lookout for the warmer days ahead.

As he leans down to brush his lips over hers, her stomach growls audibly and they both chuckle. "Any interest in pancakes?" he asks.

"Have you ever known me to turn them down?" She smiles. "Maybe we can eat and then just be lazy for the rest of the day."

"Sounds good," he agrees, standing up and starting toward the kitchen. "Not like anything short of a national disaster is gonna get me to go back out there."

She grins. "Well, it's cold."

He's at the door when he hears her behind him. "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?" He turns to face her.

She's standing beside the window seat, a mischievous grin on her face. "How many kids?"


End file.
